Gaze
by shattered petal
Summary: Olivier experiments her genetic talent on a certain Ishvalan, with chilling consequences.


**Title**: Gaze  
**Genres**: Mystery  
**Rating**: K  
**Couple**: Slight Miles/Olivier

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**author's note**: I'm crap at drawing, and it still amazes me today I actually passed Art at GCSE, but I still tried to grasp what drawing can be like for an artist. Probably went over the top, but that's the goodness of writing. I hope you enjoy! Apologies for the iffy ending. I honestly had no idea when/how to stop this one-shot.

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'My office at 1800 hours, First-Lieutenant.'

A fool would question the Queen's demand, but Miles was bewildered. Her tone couldn't be clearer he had misbehaved –– how, though? As far as he was concerned, every duty attended to was performed correctly so there wasn't a reason for Brigadier General Armstrong to feel irritated at him. Unable to ask for a reasoning because she walked away so briskly, Miles continued his patrols around the Fortress, able to forget about the meeting until it happened.

Arriving two minutes early, he paused at her door, before knocking.

'Come in.'

Before he even opened the door Olivier pulled him inside, slamming the door closed before watching him for a moment. Miles froze. It was his second year at Briggs, and his first few months of finally respecting this woman, so he was still a little edgy about her.

Then Olivier rose her chin, sparkling blue eyes hovering over his face.

It finally hit Miles what she was doing. Olivier wasn't watching him; she was _studying_ him.

'Take those shades off, along with your military jacket.'

'Um, sir––?'

'Don't speak.'

Olivier brushed past him. Back faced to her, Miles removed his shades and placed them onto the desk before peeling away his jacket. Even though he had thousands of questions, the man didn't speak. To be frank, he _did_ trust Olivier, and trust was a very dangerous talent to possess, especially for a soldier; an Ishvalan. The woman was smart and always knew what she was doing.

When he turned around, the First-Lieutenant felt more puzzled to discover a sketching pad waiting for his commanding officer, along with two pencils, one lead thicker and darker than the other. Olivier soon returned after removing her own jacket, and Miles flushed. Though it were only a jacket, to him it felt like she was completely naked. Never had he witnessed this ferocious blonde _without_ her full uniform.

Whilst Olivier sharpened the pencils, Miles waited, clenching and unclenching his fists, heart pounding against his chest.

'Sir––'

'_Miles_. I don't need to repeat myself.' She was extremely distracted, he could tell. Her tone no longer inherited an authoritative chill. Instead she sounded impatient. Impatient to do something. 'You'd best sit down.'

Steadily, Miles found a chair opposite her and obeyed, feeling awkward and confused. Olivier soon vacated the one before him, one pencil in her pocket, whilst holding the sketchpad and other artistic tool. Lungs heavy, Miles allowed the commanding officer to inspect him again, yet this time she took longer, her gorgeous irises engorging every feature of his face.

_She's going to draw me_.

The revelation felt like a spring. So sudden and surprising. _Me? Why me?_ Olivier was surrounded by men, some more handsome than he. In Miles' opinion, he was one of the ugliest, but she chose him. Unless Olivier drew every soldier in her army, which was unlikely. There was something intimate about this.

'You're tense,' Olivier sighed, annoyed. 'I _can't_ have you tense, Miles.' He attempted to loosen his muscles by shaking himself slightly. Apparently it didn't work. 'You don't need to be tense.' It was probably an effort for her, but Olivier's voice softened like melted ice. 'I'm not going to hurt you. You should be aware of this by now.'

Nodding, Miles inhaled slowly. 'How do you want me? I mean–– what do you want me––?'

'Just as you are, but lower your gaze. I don't want you staring at me for the next few minutes.'

'Few minutes? It _does_ take a few minutes, right?'

'Depends how difficult you are.'

There was more than one meaning to that statement, but Miles decided to clear his mind, and lower his gaze, fixed to her boots, leaning forwards slightly in his seat, an arm resting on his knee.

However Olivier wasn't satisfied. If there was one feature she liked about the man, it was his eyes. Every Ishvalan inherited ruby irises, but Miles' were different. So much sharper, full of everything positive: affection, acceptance, kindness, love. An opposite to hers. No, she _needed_ to see his beautiful eyes.

'... Look at me.' He looked at her. 'Don't move.'

Then Olivier's gaze dropped, and the pencil glided across the sheet of paper, starting with the nose, working her way to the eyebrows, dismissing the pencil to deliberately smudge the lead across, shading her forming man. His eyes shone, like she expected, and the more she paid attention to them, the more heavier her shoulders felt, the more her hand wanted to move. Occasionally, she would look at him, steal his profile and quickly regurgitate it, unable to control her pencil.

After seven minutes, she had drawn him down to his elbows and stopped there, desperate to return to his face, his neck, his _eyes_. So discriminated and torn away, Olivier was eager to accept his alienated features, but no matter how much she expressed such attention to his face, she would never be capable of mirroring the perfect gentleman in front of her.

It felt like the pencil stabbed Olivier's heart when she detected more mysteries behind his fiery pupils: of pain, isolation and sheer agony. Miles was keen to hide it. Hide it all. He was suffocating in his own tragedies and Olivier _forced_ this upon him. Now his steady, _broken_ gaze revealed sadness and loss. His eyebrows narrowed, creasing his tanned skin, attempting to shield his weakness.

The woman caught his demons and frantically created them, pencil curving at his eyelashes, mind lost, vision entirely fixed on the sketch and _him_. Every rough edge to his skin, every tiny little scar –– _every_ spec across his unloved expression was a diary, and she managed to open it without the key.

Miles was a mindless wind, skin rough from the sands of Ishval, hot, abused, a furious storm building up in those eyes –– dammit, _his eyes_ –– and suddenly blocked by an almighty chill, gaze frozen, incapable of moving past, too hard to see, tight muscles from labour, pain, childish enthusiasm, fatigue, destroyed happiness, struggling words forming at chapped lips, never escaped, barred speech, bleeding ears, heard too much fault, head incapable of breathing, detached, so locked in isolation and worry, desperate to achieve, to do well, to impress, to be _normal_––

Olivier stopped.

She couldn't meet his thundering orbs, fire like she had _never_ witnessed before, immortal, it couldn't be distinguished by the frozen winds she possessed.

Clenching the pencil tightly, she finally breathed, lungs released. _She had held her breath for too long_.

Olivier _had_ to finish. Too beautiful to stop.

Each line formed, scrape, smudge, breath, look –– her heart began to ache, bleeding the pain he contained for so long.

Miles' past was a horror.

And he said _nothing_ about it.

The woman had searched pages which did not belong to her. Using a pencil, she somehow managed to unlock the door and force her way in.

–– '_Leave_.'

Miles hesitated, wondering if he misheard, but Olivier was finally able to glare at him sharply, _furious_ he made such a fool of her. By doing _nothing._

Although the First-Lieutenant wanted to see her work, which, from where he sat, he knew was breathtaking, the man gathered his shades and jacket before exiting the office in a hurry.

The pencil dropped from her sore, charcoaled fingertips and Olivier waited until his footsteps vanished. Bravely, she examined her work, but only for a second.

There was something off about what she created. It was... too _real_. This hadn't meant to be. She only wanted to experiment. The thought of having the wretched sketch in her hands for any longer made the woman feel uncomfortable, made her toes curl.

Air foggy with lead, Olivier allowed the fear to sink in a little, thoughts muddled of what to do. A drawer. Shoving his secrets, his perfections and scars away, Olivier retreated from her talent.


End file.
